


Rain

by guineapiggie



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 12:00:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16832218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineapiggie/pseuds/guineapiggie
Summary: It’s not him, it’s the fact he has to work on a night like this when any sensible human’s first impulse would be to crawl into bed and only re-emerge when there was some semblance of sunlight. It’s the relentless drumming of the rain against the windshield, the dim light that tires out his eyes, the fact that every passenger seems more pissed-off than the first.





	Rain

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this for class, prompt was "a murder or contemplation thereof"

Really, Stephen thinks, letting people like him become a cab driver is a bit of a mistake.

He supposes there might be a term for the way his thoughts become more and more shrouded in soggy, dark clouds with every raindrop hammering against the windshield, how the habitual boredom turns into something heavier, hungrier, how the noise puts that strange taste on his tongue.

It might be the weather; the cold and the relentless rain, the way it fogs up the windows from the inside, more and more with every soaked passenger who slides into the back seat, dripping more of the wretched water onto the worn fabric in the process.

Or it might be the light; the way the yellow glow of the streetlight is hardly visible through the silver sheen of the rain. Even the darkness looks drenched, somehow, and the sound of the motor that he likes so much, that’s been with him for decades, is almost drowned out by the never-ending pitter-patter of the rain on the roof.

Either way, when he sits in his cab in nights like this, he gets those thoughts. Thoughts that, he’s quite sure, aren’t exactly _normal._ But that isn’t because he’s sick, because there’s something _wrong_ with him. It’s not him, it’s the fact he has to work on a night like this when any sensible human’s first impulse would be to crawl into bed and only re-emerge when there was some semblance of sunlight. It’s the relentless drumming of the rain against the windshield, the dim light that tires out his eyes, the fact that every passenger seems more pissed-off than the first. Comes in, lets in more rain, complains about the wet seat even as water drips from their collar, mumbles a destination and snaps at him when he asks to clarify, slaps a damp few pound notes into his hand and crawls out of the car to melt back into the rain whence they came.

Like it’s Stephen’s fault they’re out in this weather.

And then some, like this wanker – passing right in front of the car in a black trench coat in the middle of the night, and what an arrogant specimen that one was, and wouldn’t it be so easy to _just –_

(Nobody would doubt it for a second if he just said he hadn’t seen the man, not in this weather.)

(Wouldn’t it be such a thrilling feeling to get back at just one of those jerks, just this _once_? Wouldn’t that be the brief respite, that sliver of satisfaction that he’s been craving for so long?)

(Nobody would blame him. Who knows if anyone would even _find_ him, really. There are so many cabs, so many cab companies, so many men in cheap suits and dark coats drenched by the rain in this city in this very moment –

Even if they did, nobody would blame him. The sight in nights like these is awful, and if someone stands right in front of a starting car in this light they really only have themselves to blame.)

Such a tiny movement, really. And what a strangely exciting thought, how little effort is needed in this moment, to take a life. Just press the tip of his shoe against the accelerator, and that could happen on accident, really, sore stiff muscles after such a long day, they can twitch, that happens, Stephen isn’t the youngest himself –

How easy it would be.

Does he _want_ to do it? But that’s not the question, is it? No, the question here is, would he get away with it – that’s the only question that matters, really, for murder.

(Because it would be murder, wouldn’t it? Because it would be _intentional,_ planned, yet on impulse… would that be murder?)

(If he said it was an accident, it wouldn’t matter. And if he said it was an accident, they would believe him.)

The man hurries across the street and up the steps of the pretty little town house, warmly illuminated by the streetlight, and Stephen pulls out of the parking lane and drives away, the wheels splashing through the puddles, and smiles slightly to himself.

Really, letting people like him become a cab driver is a bit of a mistake.


End file.
